


Voices of the Underground

by Maple_Fay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, post-3x01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You and Sherlock. Have you got some kind of a wager going? ‘He who makes John Watson die of an untimely heart attack won’t have to do the dishes for a lifetime’, or something?”</p>
<p>Her grin turns predatory, while Sherlock’s face settles into a deeply thoughtful expression. “We certainly HAVEN'T had, but…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voices of the Underground

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is a 'I believe Irene was totally in the know' kind of a story, featuring Irene/Mary!Friendship, because it simply felt RIGHT to write.
> 
> This work is currently a standalone (and G-rated. I'm deeply disappointed with myself), but I cannot guarantee that the plot bunnies have left for good.
> 
> Title from A Great Big World's "This Is a New Year". Feedback is love!

**_voices of the underground_ **

\------

Texts from November 28, 2013.

_How does it feel to be back?_

**Should it feel like anything specific?**

_Hungry?_

**Starving.**

_Too bad I’m out with friends, then._

**I hate you.**

_You don’t._

\--

“Guys’ night out?”

John shrugs unrepentantly and takes another swig of his beer. “Mary said she was meeting up with friends after work, so I thought—“

“And rightly so,” Lestrade interjects, waving an electronic cigarette around with what Sherlock believes to be _quite_ too much flourish. “Sherlock still isn’t done paying up for his disappearance. Next round’s on you, Hat Boy.”

Strangely enough, the nickname—much less the demand—provokes no reaction. John raises an eyebrow, finishing off the pint. “Sherlock?”

“Out. With friends.”

“What?”

“Mary. You said she was meeting friends.”

“I did, yeah.”

The detective chuckles under his breath, eyes flashing with an emotion neither man recognizes. “That cunning—“

“Oi! Not another word about her! Not from you!”

Sherlock relaxes a fraction, although the corner of his mouth is still quivering slightly. “Apologies. I wasn’t referring to Mary. In fact, I find her intensely fascinating. She’s probably the best thing that could have happened to you in my absence.”

John frowns, pointedly ignoring Lestrade and Anderson’s grins. “Have the two of you been talking?”

“No more than usual.”

“Who did you mean, then?”

“What? When?”

“You _said_ —“

“I didn’t say a word.” The half-smile on Sherlock’s lips is a clear indicator of yet another scheme rolling out behind his eyes, but members of the assembled party know better than to question him further. “Well, then. Another round of the same?”

\--

The smell smacks him straight in the face before he’s even done turning the key in its lock. Huffing with irritation, he nonetheless makes a detour by Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, snatching an almost full bottle of white wine from the fridge. “That was quite foolish,” he remarks, placing his prey on the table next to the greasy newspaper hiding the real treasure of the night. “What if John happened upon the two of you?”

The shadow curled up on the sofa laughs quietly, reaching up to pull at the end of his scarf. “Such care and concern, Mr Holmes? I’m deeply touched.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Not _yet_ , I presume.”

The huff morphs into a chuckle as Sherlock throws himself onto his chair and reaches for a chip. “Why did you do it?” he asks, chewing with barely concealed pleasure. “Why do you _always_ need to complicate matters?”

A shrug. A stolen chip, or three. Sherlock reaches out absentmindedly, brushes vinegar off long, slim fingers that stroke his for a fleeting moment. A laugh. “You hate simple. You hate dull.”

“Oh, so it was all for me, was it? I’m ever so grateful.”

“Not _all_ for you, no. I like her. She’s interesting.”

“She lies.”

“Not all the time. And I'm planning to tell her the truth. Soon. Besides, we all lie—or have you forgotten?”

He lets the question slide, shimmying out of his jacket and picking up a fish finger. “So, does this mean you’re building your social network back up? Returning to The Game, as it were?”

“You’re _dying_ to know, aren’t you?”

“Bad pun. Very bad pun.”

“Can you do any better?”

It’s an obvious invitation, one he wouldn’t have picked up two years ago. Tonight, everything is different. “Why don’t you let me try, and decide for yourself.”

Two years ago, the offer might have been accepted with ease and anticipation. Tonight, Sherlock hears a soft laugh from the shadows, followed by a rustle of clothing and a creak of the floorboard by the door. “Perhaps another time. If you behave correctly.”

“What if I _mis_ behave?”

“You know my system of punishments, don’t you? Goodnight, Mr Holmes.”

Before he goes to bed, the wine and chips are entirely gone. He takes the dishes to the kitchen, puts them in the sink, but washes only one glass: the one with telltale marks on the rim.

\--

“So,” John rolls over onto the covers, playing idly with the hem of Mary’s nightdress, “have you decided yet?”

She makes a show of trying to remember the subject of said decision, before chuckling merrily and bending to kiss the tip of his right ear. “I might have done. Depends on whether Sherlock is going to be the best man or not.”

“Why? Is your prospective maid-of-honour a gorgeous, sharp as a knife woman that’s bound to reduce Sherlock Holmes to a babbling idiot? Because I can tell you right now, this doesn’t happen all that often. Just the once…”

\--

“Did I ever tell you how we met?” Mary throws back another shot of tequila, shuddering violently and reaching blindly out for a lime slice. Her companion pushes the small plate over to her with grace and consideration. “Thanks. We were at a restaurant; John’s about to propose, and poof! Sherlock shows up, disguised as a waiter. Talk about bad timing.”

“Well, at least it didn’t make John switch the object of his proposal.”

“’Thank the Lord for small mercies’, and all that?”

“That’s actually rubbish.”

“I know.” A pause. Another round of shots. The base rumbles quietly in the background, and Mary thinks they should leave the bar and rejoin the rest of the hen party. _Her_ hen party, to be more exact.

They will. In a moment. “So. Wanna know what John _did_ do?”

“I’m all but desperate to find out.”

“He strangled him. Thirty seconds straight.”

Her companion laughs merrily, a deep, pleasant sound that makes quite a few men turn away from their carefully nursed drinks and towards the two women, classical opposites, perched on two barstools closest to the exit. A few of those smile encouragingly. Mary ignores them, signalling the barman to keep the drinks coming, please and thank you. “I thought you might like this story.”

“I only wish I was there to see it. John Watson, a man after my own taste, it would seem.”

“Not all the time, though.”

“Is that a petition for me to give him some hints?”

“No! You’re a hopeless case.”

“ _And_ your maid of honour. What does that say about both of us?”

“That we’re quite a pair to behold. We could probably burn this place to the ground if we made our minds up to it.”

“I’d rather not tonight. There’s this wedding I need to be at tomorrow, after all.”

“And you simply cannot _wait_ to see the best man again, can you?”

A smirk, one that the man in a wrinkly suit, on his way over to where the two friends are seated, would very much like to wipe off of her mouth with a kiss. A smirk that turns to dagger-filled glare, making said man miss his step and fall down heavily onto a nearby stool, his appetite waning rapidly. Mary promises herself, through the half-transparent cloud hanging over her mind, that she is going to learn the secret behind that glare. After all, she’s about to become a married person—such a weapon against unwanted male company might come in handy.

“The best man is certainly going to be a treat,” the future maid-of-honour admits elegantly, her red-painted fingernails striking up a rhythm upon the well-polished bar top, “but it’s the groom’s reaction I’m looking forward to the most. If you pardon my expression.”

“He’ll be alright with it. Probably going to talk your ear off before the night is done, but he shouldn’t make too much of a fuss. It will be _fine_ , you’ll see.”

The look on her companion’s face clearly shows she doubts the statement—but she makes no further comment no the matter.

She’s learnt not to put too much faith into the future.

\--

“Oh, brilliant. Is that what the people of this town do this season? Coming back to life, a new trend at the parties?”

Mary winces slightly, but Irene doesn’t seem ruffled—not more than the lace on Mary’s veil she’s currently setting straight for the umpteenth time. “Told you he’d take it well.”

John throws his arms up, looking over to Sherlock for help—help that doesn’t come. Obviously. “How did you even?...” Suddenly he deflates, like a balloon shot with an automatic gun. “D’you know what? I don’t want to know. I certainly don’t _need_ to know.” He pauses and considers something, brows furrowed, before pointing a finger at Irene’s chest. “One thing, though.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson?”

“You and Sherlock. Have you got some kind of a wager going? ‘He who makes John Watson die of an untimely heart attack won’t have to do the dishes for a lifetime’, or something?”

Her grin turns predatory, while Sherlock’s face settles into a deeply thoughtful expression. “We certainly _haven’t_ had, but…”

“Irene. Drinks. _Please_.”

“Naturally, Mary, darling.” Irene ghosts her lips over Mary’s cheekbone, making both Sherlock and John startle visibly. “There’ll be a lot of time to talk… later.”

\--

“Somebody’s going to _die_?!”

“Well, don’t look at me! Death at a wedding is terribly cliché. Besides, does any of you know how hard it is to wash blood out of a mauve cocktail dress?” Sudden tension in the air only makes Irene blink innocently and take another sip of her wine. “What? Hypothetical research topic.”

Mary pales a shade and elbows Irene in the ribs none too gently. “I _really_ didn’t need that image.”

“And they say _I_ am a sociopath.”

“Quiet, dear.”

“Since _when_ is _he_ a ‘dear’?!”

“Doctor Watson—you seem to be overreacting.”

“Do I? I wonder _why_.”

“Priorities! There’s a murder about to be committed. We can always resume awkward social conversations after the threat has been averted. You coming?”

They follow him without any more ado. All three of them.

\--

“That was… close.”

“To a miracle?”

“Stop it, this instant. Smug doesn’t suit you. Besides, I was referring to our stopping the murder earlier today, not… this.”

“ _I_ stopped the murder. You… helped. A little.” A pause, filled with purposeful movements and watermelon cigarette smoke. “I’m… glad you did.”

“Was that a ‘thank you’? My, my, Mr Holmes—it seems I _have_ managed to teach you a thing or two after all.”

“Your methods were not entirely… repulsive. And I’m an exceptionally fast learner: which I might easily prove, should you require a demonstration.”

“Tempting as it is, I may have to decline your generous offer. I don’t think we’re supposed to have more fun than the married couple, at least not tonight.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting how prone to _misbehaving_ I am.”

The cigarette is extinguished with care, and the rest of the wine spilt across the pristine hotel sheets, before she can finally answer, only a little breathless:

“I happen to have an _excellent_ memory, Mr Holmes.”

**The End**


End file.
